Still You

by Claire Allan

  “I know,” he replied as his hands slipped from hers. “We could have been so happy, Áine. We were happy. I would have given you a great life.” His voice broke a little, but he coughed and settled himself. “You have your own life – you can’t live Charlotte’s for her.”

  “I should leave,” Áine said, ignoring the thumping in her chest, and stood up.

  “And go home again in that weather? At least let me try and drive you!”

  She shook her head. It would be awkward – and more uncomfortable than walking home in still-wet clothes without having dried out or warmed up properly.

  He brought her things to her without arguing and she slipped them on, then walked to the door, stopping only to apologise again before heading out where the snow was falling in fat, white clumps. She hoped there had been some truth in the story she had told the children last night – that the snowflakes were kisses from heaven – that Charlotte was somehow surrounding her with love and telling her everything would be okay.

  Present Day

  “I have to give it to you, girls,” I laughed. “You definitely don’t get your baking skills from your mother – these are lovely.”

  Eve beamed with pride and even Sorcha was smiling.

  We were sitting at Áine’s big dining table, enjoying their spoils of home-baked scones, clattered in real butter and some home-made jam.

  They were delicious and the four of us, Áine included, had forgotten our manners and were talking through our mouthfuls, proud as punch of our achievement.

  “You girls are naturals,” Áine said. “It was a pleasure to have you here.”

  The afternoon had gone much better than I ever could have hoped. Sorcha had miraculously left her attitude behind and had behaved impeccably. She had even seemed to enjoy it.

  “You are so much better than my Home Ec teacher! She makes cooking so boring!”

  Áine had beamed back at her. “Well, I did love to teach – and I love to cook. It can be great fun – and therapeutic too.”

  “I’m always telling her that,” Eve said, her nose perhaps a little out of joint that her sister was shining so brightly at scone-baking.

  “And she should listen to you,” Áine said. “Because you are a great cook, Miss Eve. Don’t you have me and your mammy spoiled with lovely dinners?”

  The two girls had been so caught up in their activities that the early evening had whizzed by – and Áine seemed to thrive on the company. When Jonathan arrived, just as the girls were packing up their remaining scones into a Tupperware container, Áine had rushed to show him what they had baked and beg him to try some.

  “They’re lovely. Even better than the ones we used to bake when you were little,” she said with a smile.

  “I don’t think that’s possible,” Jonathan said. “Sure you said Emma and I were the best helpers you ever had. Don’t tell me you’ve cheated on us now?”

  Áine blushed and playfully slapped him on the arm. “Don’t you try and make me feel guilty, young man! You know where you and your sister live in my heart! Now eat up that scone now.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he smiled and gratefully took a scone from Eve who had buttered it for him.

  The girls smiled even more brightly when he gave us all the thumbs-up, his mouth still full of scone.

  When he was finished eating he thanked us all.

  “I’m assuming these two girls are your daughters?” he said.

  “They are indeed,” I said proudly. “My twins, Sorcha and Eve.”

  “They are lovely, like their mum,” he said with a smile.

  “They really are,” Áine said. “We have had such a lovely day. Just perfect!”

  As the girls got into the car, our goodbyes said, Jonathan called me back to the porch where he stood.

  “Thank you,” he said simply. “You are a breath of fresh air, Georgina Casey – and I am glad you have swept into our lives.”

  “You’re very welcome,” I said.

  “Your daughters are a credit to you and your husband,” he said. “I hope he enjoys the scones as much as I did.”

  “Ah, he’ll not get a chance to,” I said. “He only sees the girls at the weekends and I can guarantee they won’t last that long.”

  “You’re separated?” he asked, his eyebrow raised in a way that raised my blood pressure.

  “Yes,” I replied, suddenly feeling tongue-tied.

  “Well, that’s very interesting,” he smiled. “Goodnight, Georgina Casey.”

  I turned on my heel, walked back to the car and told myself not to read anything into this at all. Nothing at all.

  Chapter 22

  1964

  Christmas Eve arrived with a new flurry of snow. The children played the day away, until the sunset and Áine ushered them in from the garden and sat them in front of the fire to defrost. By six the children were bathed and dressed in their new nightwear, dressing gowns and slippers. They were drying their hair in front of the fire when Jack arrived. They were so excited about Christmas they had begged to get ready for bed extra early and were already desperate to climb the stairs.

  “You’ve tired them out,” Rosaleen said. “All that building snowmen and baking cookies and singing carols. It’s no wonder they want to go to bed. I want to go to bed myself. In fact, I might just before your man arrives.”

  “Well, that might not be a bad thing,” Áine said, her own head hurting with the exertion of the day. “You’ve done too much yourself today and a good night’s sleep will leave you able to enjoy tomorrow.”

  “You’re right, pet,” Rosaleen said.

  “I’ve lit the fire in your room. Take a book up. I’ll bring you a cup of tea in a wee bit and build the fire up.”

  Rosaleen hauled herself up from her chair, the colder weather making her arthritis harder to bear. “That sounds perfect, love. I’ll give the children a kiss and cuddle and head up. Are you sure you don’t need me to help you play Santa?”

  “I’ll be fine, Mother, honest. You look done in.”

  Áine kissed her mother, finished tidying the kitchen and made sure the turkey for the following day’s dinner was ready to go in the oven and then she heard the doorbell ring and made her way to the door.

  The children jumped up. “It’s Daddy!” they cheered, dashing down the hall as fast as their feet could carry them.

  It was the most excited Áine had seen them all day. They almost tumbled her over as she reached for the door to pull it open, and Jack dropped to his knees as soon as he saw them to pull them into a huge cuddle. It would have been a picture-perfect image, Áine thought – had it not been for what was going on behind the smiles.

  “We really missed you, Daddy,” Emma lisped.

  “Are we going with you now, Daddy?” Jonathan asked, his eyes wide.

  “With Santa knowing to bring your presents here? Sure if you went with me, you’d miss out on them altogether, and then where would we be?” Jack said with forced breeziness. “I’m going to stay with Grandma and Grandpa, because I still have work to do – but I promise I will visit every day until it’s time for me to go back to Italy. It’s very boring in Italy at the moment, you know. You wouldn’t have half as much fun back there as you do here with Auntie Áine and Granny.”

  Jonathan’s lip wobbled a little and Áine’s heart broke just a little at the sight of her nephew trying so hard to be brave.

  “I don’t really care about presents, Daddy, or if it’s too boring at home,” he said.

  “I do,” Emma piped up. “I care about presents a lot.”

  Jack laughed at his daughter’s enthusiasm but pulled his son extra close to him, kissing the top of his head.

  “Come in,” Áine urged. “You’ll all catch your death of cold. Come in and you can all have a proper hug by the fire.”

  Reluctantly the three of them pulled apart and Áine closed off the winter night and ushered them into the sitting room.

  She followed them only as far as the door, where she all
owed herself to stand and watch for only a minute. She felt as though she was intruding on something she shouldn’t see – on the dynamics of a family unit in its own right that needed, more than anything, just to be together.

  “I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me,” she said, amid the chatter of the children regaling their father with tales of all their crafty adventures with their Auntie Áine. “I’ve hot cocoa for the children before bed. I thought you might like to put them to bed when the time comes. They’ve been torturing me all day to let them go to bed, but I think they may have their second wind now that you are here.”

  “Thank you,” Jack said sincerely. “Thank you, Áine – for all this.”

  She simply nodded and turned to go and sit by the range, with her book, a cup of tea and a slice of home-baked apple pie.

  Once the children had gone to bed, relatively peacefully, calmed at the prospect that Jack promised he would come back the following day from his parents’ house to see them after dinner, Operation Santa had begun.

  Rosaleen had bought gifts for the children, which she had wrapped in festive paper. Áine had bought a few pieces as well – books, crayons and puzzles which she had filled their stockings with.

  Jack brought in a few items from his car. “It’s hard not to spoil them knowing what they have been through,” he said, looking over his haul. “But it doesn’t seem enough, does it?”

  There was a doll and pram for Emma, a dolls’ house and a host of colouring books, dresses and ribbons for her hair. There was a set of Corgi cars for Jonathan along with a train set that Áine was sure would take up at least half of the playroom floor. There was enough chocolate to last the children through to Easter.

  “I think they’ll be over the moon,” Áine said. “Are you sure you won’t come in the morning? It might do your heart good?”

  He shook his head, and rubbed his eyes. He looked so tired. “Do you know what Jonathan told me he had asked Santa for? He said he had asked if he could just please have his mamma back – and he promised if Santa brought that one thing he would never ask for anything ever again and that could be his best and only Christmas present for the rest of his life.”

  Áine sighed. “Oh God, Jack. How are we going to help them get over this?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Charlotte would have known. She always had all the answers. She would have sat down, put her hands on her lap and announced that nothing was impossible and she would have had some way.”

  “And it would have been gloriously creative and bonkers and …”

  “Something neither of us can think of?”

  Áine nodded. “I wouldn’t mind if she told me how I could get over it too. And I tell you,” she added with a wry smile, “if Santa could bring her back for me as well I promise I wouldn’t ask for anything ever again either.”

  “God – this was not how it was supposed to go,” Jack said. “We had our happy ever after, your sister and I. We had everything we wanted and more.”

  “Strange as it sounds, Jack,” Áine said, “you can take comfort in the fact that you both lived your lives as fully as you could. She was so happy. I don’t think I ever saw her unhappy when she was with you. Even when mother would give out to her about your carefree lifestyle, she would brush it off. She didn’t ever doubt she was living her life the best she could, Jack. You shouldn’t be so hard on yourself..”

  “But if I had just woken up, just heard her …”

  “We could all play that ‘if’ game from now until forever but it’s not likely to make a difference. I’m not saying it doesn’t hurt – because it really, really hurts – but Santa’s not bringing her back, Jack – no matter how many of us write him a letter and beg him to do so. So maybe the best thing we can do for the children – and for all of us – is to try and remember, over and over and over again, all the good things about her.”

  Jack sat back and smiled. “There were plenty of those. This may sound like salesman patter, but she was one of a kind – luminescent in every way. I’d like to say my business thrived because of my prowess, but it was, I think, largely down to the fact that most of the vineyard owners were that little bit in love with Charlotte. They always gave me their best prices – they called me one lucky man!”

  “Well, you were that,” Áine said, warmed at hearing just how much her sister had been loved. It was nice to know that love like that existed. It was nice to chat like this – to remember and to reminisce without recrimination and blame.

  “You know what, Jack? I fancy a drink – would you like one? To fuel us for putting this train track together and building a dolls’ house?

  “You know, I think I really would.”

  Áine poured two drinks – a gin and lemon for her, a whiskey on the rocks for him and they set to work, companionably together.

  When the sitting room had been transformed into a festive wonderland, Áine poured a second round of drinks and sat down on the hearthrug close to Jack, who was staring into the fire.

  “We should clink these together – for Charlotte,” Jack said, “who would have drunk us both under the table given half the chance.”

  Áine laughed and they clinked.

  “God, I remember Mother being so horrified to find out Charlotte was drinking when she was just seventeen. She gave her a lecture on the dangers of alcoholism and made sure not a drop of the hard stuff passed through this house for two years at least. Charlotte used to tease her awfully, carrying in tall glasses of cold tea and telling Mother she was just having a wee drop before bed.”

  Jack laughed. “She had the wickedest sense of humour of anyone I have ever known. You know, she would come in to the poker nights at the villa and she could tell the dirtiest joke at the table.”

  “You don’t need to tell me how wicked she could be,” Áine laughed. “I grew up with her teasing me, pushing me, making me blush. I used to think she was just trying to make my life hell – but I think she was trying to make sure I didn’t end up a dried-up old prune. She may well have failed on that one.”

  “The big romance?” Jack asked.

  “Is no more,” Áine said.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Jack said. “Truthfully, I am. I know Charlotte liked Lorcan. And yes, you are right. She wanted you to have the best of things – to be happy.”

  “I’m not unhappy,” Áine said. “Apart from missing Charlotte.”

  He smiled. “I tell her I’m unhappy, that I can’t imagine being happy ever again when I’m talking to her. I do that, you know – talk to her. You may think I’m mad – but I think it would be worse not to talk to her. I couldn’t imagine that. I say to her that I just want to find some happiness again – but I don’t know how I can.”

  “The children,” Áine said. “When you saw them tonight – when they saw you. Those smiles – they were genuine. That was happiness, no matter how fleeting. I think if you could just grab onto those moments and hold them then they might become minutes, and then maybe hours, and then maybe days …”

  “You sound stronger than I do,” he said, swishing the whiskey around in his glass before taking a long slug.

  Áine shook her head and she thought of whether or not she was strong. She didn’t think she was – she was just coping. As her mother had coped before her.

  “We’ll all get there, in our way and in our own time,” she said.

  “And the children?” he asked, a glint of a tear in his eyes.

  “They are welcome here until you do feel strong enough – but don’t forget they need you. You saw that tonight.”

  “I did.” He looked into the fire for a bit – the embers were fading now, the heat dimming. There was a hint of cold invading the room. As they had talked, put the toys together and shared their memories it had turned midnight. “It’s Christmas,” he said.

  “So it is,” Áine said.

  “And Santa didn’t bring her.”

  “No,” Áine said, shaking her head. “But we’ve had a nice ti
me talking about her – remembering her. I’ve enjoyed it, Jack.”

  “Me too,” he said, wiping his eyes. “I mean that. But I’d best be off. I’m sure those children won’t let you sleep too late in the morning.”

  “The spare room is made up – you just have to say.”

  “I’ve had one for the road,” he said, shaking his head, “so the road is waiting for me.” He stood up.

  Together they walked to the hall where he took his coat and hat from the stand and wrapped up.

  “Thank you, Áine, for your company, the drink and taking the time to listen. I’ll be over tomorrow to see the children. I won’t leave it too late – let them know I may bring an extra treat, and tell them I love them. We love them. We always have.”

  The opening of the door brought with it a fresh blast of icy cold air. It was snowing again – fat flakes again. It had its own kind of sound – snow. A buzz, a soft fuzzy whisper. In the light from the door, illuminating the pathway, it looked almost as if the stars were falling from the skies.

  Or that kisses were indeed falling from heaven.

  Áine watched as Jack walked towards his car and she realised she hadn’t told him how the children believed that. He would like that story, she thought, so she called his name and walked towards him.

  “She’s here, you know,” she said. “I tell the children she’s here. When it snows. Close your eyes, put your hands out, Jack, and feel the snow.”

  Whether he thought she was crazy or not, he humoured her and tilted his head towards the sky. Áine did the same and let the cold flakes land and melt on her face and hands.

  When she opened her eyes, she heard the door open on Jack’s car. “I have to go,” he said, his face turned to the car.

  She stared as he climbed in.

  “She’s here,” he said softly.

  Closing the door, he drove off.

  And when she climbed into bed that night, with the children at last sleeping soundly in their own rooms, she smiled instead of cried, and she whispered to the room and to Charlotte that she loved her very much.